The house has been chilling all night.
Morning brings an early dash to the thermostat
and then back to bed.
Classical music on the bedside radio brings the sleepy room to life.
Age-old notes gently wake me. My aim is to stay awake
for Garrison Keillor's, Writer's Almanac at 6.15.
I fight a return to slumber
so I can hear what author was born on this day,
or what literary event has its anniversary today.
If I'm really fortunate, I can hear the entire poem he reads
as he closes the program.
The smell of fresh brewed coffee insists
that I get up and pour a cup and grope toward the family room.
On goes the fireplace as I wrap myself in a blanket.
I may read from a book and doze, or check to see what
old movie is on TCM.
It used to be the news I watched until I became
The house is quiet. The little white dog is still in her kennel.
Soon she will be released to run outside and bark at the frozen universe.
Then back inside, a couple laps around the family room
and whomp! up on the couch with me.
Settling next to me, she sighs and puts her weary head
down as if she'd been up all night.
Is it still night? Morning? If not for the cup of coffee
in my hand, I wouldn't know.
Night blurs into day during the time called
The Cozy Hour.
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